Durty Danny

This past couple of years have seen us get two kittens and a pup. This has been cheering and has brought a bit of youthful high spirits to the house. This is all very well except that ten years from now they are going to catch up with us in decrepitude and it seems unfair, it's already unfair to foist our old selves on young animals. We might be wiser these days but we're nowhere near as much fun and Cleo hasn't had a tenth of the experiences that Danny and Rosie had being the beloved dogs of far younger people.

Danny travelled. He was never away from beaches, was all around Ireland, and even went to Manchester to visit Katy when she was at Uni. He loved the Dingle peninsula and had great times in Sligo and Galway. He was part of the County Antrim rave scene and attended many open-air music gatherings of an informal sort. We were party animals and so was he. Rosie might not have been as sociable or as far-travelled but she enjoyed her outings too as did Paddy. 

It helped that Nellybert were outrageously irresponsible. We let the dogs loose and assumed that all would be well. Once, at the Omagh Bluegrass Festival, we lost Danny and Rosie. We were staying (big crowd of us) in two holiday cottages. The two dogs were soon found, at a barbecue, to which they had not been invited. Danny was damnable for joining other people's picnics and barbecues and somehow he always got away with it. As did we.

One of Danny's more memorable trips was to Galway City. We had rooms somewhere and Danny was to sleep in the van. No bother to him as the van was his second home. Before we turned in for the night we took him for a walk. On a lead, but he was OK about it. A small van passed us with one of the back doors open. Something flew out. Partially cooked chicken pieces. Danny started to munch.  He ate as much as he could and then gathered in his mouth what he could carry back to the van. I told you we were irresponsible. We retired to our lodgings which were cheap but not cheerful. There is nothing cheerful about slugs crawling up the bathroom tiles. 

The next morning our darling dog was still alive, very much so but for the entirety of that day, the farts coming out of him were abominable. Served us right. 

And that was just one of Danny's many adventures. Poor Cleo is already over a year old and hasn't gone a step further than Waterfoot Beach. No off-lead adventures for her either as we are responsible pet-owners now. About time.

Cleo at Waterfoot